


life itself

by fightfortherightsofhouseelves



Series: life, interrupted [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Smut for later chapters, Golden Trio, Harry Ron and Hermione taking down Riddle's organisation, Harry vs Voldemort/Riddle, Harry's POV, Hinny, Hinny as parents, Muggle AU, Order of the Phoenix vs Death Eaters, Part II of II, Part II of life interrupted, Violence and character death in later chapters, dad!harry, romione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightfortherightsofhouseelves/pseuds/fightfortherightsofhouseelves
Summary: I was one year old when Lily and James Potter were murdered by Tom Riddle. [After the abduction of his son by Death Eaters, marking the start of the war between Riddle and the Order, Harry, Ron, and Hermione plan the destruction of Riddle's organisation and embark on a dangerous quest to get their former lives back and their families safe. [Hinny/Romione Muggle AU. Part II of life, interrupted]
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: life, interrupted [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024401
Comments: 80
Kudos: 31





	1. wake up, shake up and jump back in

**Author's Note:**

> part II of the college/muggle AU life, interrupted is here! can be read independently, although there are details somewhat key to the plot hidden in the first part that might help make better sense of the story as a whole :)

I was one year old when Lily and James Potter were murdered by Tom Riddle.

I had just turned twenty-six when he came back and abducted my son, desperate to finish what he’d failed and starving for revenge. My one month old son.

Because of me. Because I couldn’t keep him safe. Because I -

* * *

My head is split open with pain and I feel it cracking further with someone’s moans and howls of agony somewhere in the distance. It’s not long before I realise that someone’s me.

I want to crawl out of my skin, run away from this incredible pain that I’m feeling, take a gun to my head and blow it out of me. I need to; I can’t.

I can’t take it anymore.

I howl, I roar till there’s blood on my tongue and fire down my throat. I scream till I no longer have a voice. I scream for them. I ache for them.

James.

Ginny.

My wife. My son. My family.

What have I done?

I need to see them but I can’t, I -

I fall into the black again.

* * *

I wake up in a violent convulsion, lungs constricting with each hungry gulp of air, vision shaking, switching between red and black and red again. 

Hands touch me, push me back, cover my mouth when I scream - Ginny, James, I need them.

“Shush, Harry. Stay in bed, shush, you’ll only harm yourself.”

Ginny, James, where are they? What’s happened? Where are they?

“Harry, please! You’re waking up, be still, you’re waking up. Ron!”

What have I done? Where are they? My son!

More hands push me back, words I barely understand whispered above me. They hold me strongly, press my body into the hard, rough mattress till my mind quietens, till the quiver in my soul weakens. And then, a vision of her materialises suddenly before my eyes, boisterous laugh and clusters of freckles, and I finally find purpose.

“Ginny -”

“She’s with Sirius, mate. He’ll be taking her and Mum and Dad to a safe house,” Ron’s voice floats through the pitch black. I breathe only once before my lungs constrict again in utter fright.

“And James? They had him before I -”

“He’s alright too, Harry,” Hermione shushes me, shifting closer. I can barely make out her figure in the darkness, heaps of bushy hair bouncing as she moves. “Tonks and Remus have got him, they tracked down Avery right after you passed out.”

Passed out, huh. An elegant way to put the asphalt crushing my skull into words. Dear old Hermione…

“Then that means Voldemort didn’t get to him, doesn’t it? He didn’t get to touch my son, did he?” I croak, wincing in pain as I try to raise on my elbows. Bad idea, very, very bad idea.

Ron seems to fiddle with something before there’s a smirk in his voice as he speaks, “Not if we had something to say about it.”

“Ron’s discovered a great fondness for guns,” Hermione supplies and I stifle a grin at the clear displeasure in her voice. Ron and guns, though. Lucky bastard.

My eyes stray to the spare flecks of light tumbling from under the cloth covering the single window of this stuffy, dark room we’re in. How far have we run?

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere safe,” Hermione whispers, full black bags under her eyes, and lifts the covers back over me. “Gloucestershire.” 

Gloucestershire? What’s in Gloucestershire? I can recall mostly nothing about it, but then I know even less about the inner workings of the Order. Sirius took care of it thoroughly.

I shift uncomfortably, the dull pain in my head rolling hard against my skull, vision foggy for a beat before Ron and Hermione’s figures come back into focus. I clear my throat, give my mind time to settle on a question of the many screaming deep inside it, pick me, pick me, pick me, think only about me.

“So, er - what happened? Besides the obvious abduction of my one month old son with me standing next to him as it happened, leaving my wife without goodbye and the small coma I’ve been in for the last, what, two weeks?”

“Three actually,” Ron says with a cough and shuffles his chair closer to the camp bed I’m lying in, pats the blanket where it covers my shin.

“Oh. Yeah, that’s much better, thanks,” I drawl and he grins back. 

“Don’t mention it,” he winks. “It’s how long you haven’t had a shower in.”

“Way to bring it home, mate,” I laugh before it turns into a coughing fit. That then turns into the vilest, most vicious headache anyone’s ever suffered, which, of course, prompts the question: why the fuck me?

Oh, that’s right, it’s also because of me.

I can hear Hermione fret, fidgeting over something on the other side of the room before she returns with her palm full of pills and something warm steaming from a mug. She offers them to me, drags the wonky chair she’d claimed earlier closer to Ron, closer to the camp bed, and sighs deeply. She’d been worried sick, I know as much, so far from her home, her parents, having to watch over me as I lay uselessly here, having to starve and freeze, constantly afraid. Because of me.

Because I’ve dragged them all into this, because I couldn’t keep away when I’ve been told to. 

“Harry,” Hermione says slowly, eyes scanning the creases in my brow, the stillness of my jaw, “what is it? Is it your head again?”

“No, I’m alright,” I hurry, pop the pills into my mouth and quickly chug down the warm liquid. “What happened, do we know anything yet?”

Ron and Hermione share a look. He squares his shoulders, takes a breath and then he starts easily, his penchant for making light of any situation now put to good use as the blanks are filled one by one and the heavy weight pressing into my chest slowly, carefully alleviates. 

“You might already know that a team from the Order was on guard duty for - er, at the beach,” Ron rapidly corrects himself and I wince - I know what he was about to say: they were on guard duty for us, for me, for my bloody birthday. “Well, Sturgis -”

“Podmore?”

“Yeah, him. He got this odd message to retreat to another location, somewhere rather far off - it was written in our code, mind, and had Sirius’ signature at the end. Obviously, Sirius didn’t send it, but they didn’t know it at the time, yeah? So Podmore sends it out and everyone who’d been stationed round the beach is retreating until Tonks thinks to signal to Sirius that they’re changing location.”

I frown. “Didn’t they realise it was odd Sirius didn’t come directly to give them the message?”

Hermione whimpers, but Ron places a hand on her knee, ever gentle. “Not at the time, no. You know how these things are - painfully obvious when all’s over, but not as much when you’re in the middle of it. Of course, if they’d have had Hermione’s brains,” he adds with a smile as she pretends to shush him. 

“Carry on?” I try before their looks become heated and their hands any more - erm, handsy.

“Yeah, so Sirius catches Tonks’ signal and goes to see what’s happened.”

“That’s where he went, then. Prick didn’t say anything.”

“Why, so you could come running head first into a flock of Death Eaters and give my sister a bigger fright?” Ron drawls, cocking his head to the side and I shrink a little. He’s right, he bloody well is. “That fucker Avery walks in the moment Sirius leaves.”

A violent shudder washes through me. “And then he snatched my son from under my big, stupid nose,” I growl, self-loathing scintillating on my tongue.

“Harry, don’t,” Hermione shivers, her body leaning forward, unease on her face. “Don’t do this to yourself. You were happy, you couldn’t have -”

“That’s exactly it, Hermione,” I cut in, words sharp like daggers, “I allowed myself to get distracted, I allowed myself to be fucking happy -”

“Oi,” Ron snaps, his arm protectively around Hermione’s waist. “Hermione’s right, mate, don’t do this to yourself,” he adds after a pause, tone decidedly softer. “Plus, I didn’t wipe your arse every day for nearly three weeks just to have you whine like a prick the moment you wake up, yeah?”

He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I, on the other hand, seem to have swallowed my tongue as I sit in silence, pushing the back of my head into the rough pillow as if it could hide me from Ron’s big, blue eyes, hide me from the shame.

“Anyway,” Ron clears his throat and carries on, breaking the utter stillness, voice crashing through the darkness to take me back to that day on the beach, “then we all know your massive head inflated, you hopped on Sirius’ motorbike, found the Order, had a row with Sirius.”

I shift uncomfortably. I was one heartbeat away from punching his nose off when I heard Avery was seen fleeing the beach on a bike of his own, something like a roll of cloth held tightly at his chest - I remember now, it all comes back to me now. Sirius wouldn’t let me go and I nearly pummelled him. Fuck, oh, fuck, what did I do?

“You pushed him to the ground and revved that bike in Avery’s direction in a spectacular display of being a git,” Ron clicks his tongue and I can’t look at him anymore, my skin itching with shame and disgust, like millions of roaches crawling underneath it. “Then Tonks and Remus take one of the Order cars and follow you, Sirius with them - probably violently cursing as they speed down, I like to imagine.”

I wince again. The image of the gray, flat, heavy asphalt resurfaces, blurring my vision for a moment.

“Avery shot at you, didn’t he, Harry?” Hermione asks, a little fearful. 

I hear the pistol, I can smell the smoke, the scent of the iron as it heats. And then crash, burn, nothing. 

My head throbs again, I grit my teeth to keep the pain inside. I nearly scream.

“They heard gunshots and knew it couldn’t have possibly been Harry, as he’d been daft enough to jump into battle unarmed,” Ron drawls, hooking his thumb over his shoulder to point at me as he leans towards Hermione, grabs her chin to plant a kiss on her lips. He smiles then. “This is where they found your scrawny body spread-eagled on the motorway, blood dripping from your head. Ghastly thing, I reckon, eh? Don’t pout so soon, Harry, mate, there’s more.”

At this point, I’m not completely certain if he wants to update me or punish me. Or perhaps a bit of both - afteral, I’m the one who’s solely responsible for what I’ve brought onto his sister. My wife.

“The bike’s smashed near you and Sirius stays with you, calls for help, while Tonks and Remus follow Avery and quite literally hand his arse to him -”

“You mean we’ve got Avery?” I exhale hopefully, attempting to raise on my elbows before Ron pushes me back, bridge of his palm against the centre of my chest, his lips pursed in a thin line.

“No, he escaped. But the aim was always to get James, wasn’t it?” 

I swallow hard, willing my breathing to stay even, forbidding my mind to conjure images of my son in a Death Eater’s arms. Because of me, just me.

But I’ll be sure to thank them for it. The whole lot of them. I swear it.

“Back at the beach,” Ron waves his hand vaguely as he continues the story, “there’s now a massive fight between us and them -”

“Were you and Hermione there?”

“No, and stop interrupting me. Gosh, you’re the worst listener, aren’t you?” Ron rolls his eyes and I hold my breath. “The wankers, of course, fall back once they hear their good mate Avery’s failed his very difficult mission of abducting a one month old baby - reckon his boss wasn’t too happy with the result, eh? Back on the motorway, though, the cavalry - and by that I mean Fred and George in what I assume was a stolen car - arrive. And before you ask, yeah, they were there. Volunteered with the rest of them, probably had a bloody good time with Tonks and Remus before the whole snafu happened.”

Hermione clears her throat, her eyes straying to the covered windows and Ron flashes her a sheepish smile, leaning sideways on his chair.

“Right. They load you into the car and take you to a safe house full of doctors waiting to have you fixed. You’d think taking all these precautions, having doctors on call and all, might sound like rubbish, but I figure that’s what saved your life, mate.”

I shudder, another wave of disgust smacking right into my chest and I feel a violent need to vomit. “All those people having to give up their daily lives so that I could have a jolly good time on my birthday.”

“Harry, stop,” Hermione trounces, her tone stern, unafraid this time. “This isn’t a joke. It’s war, Harry, and you happen to be in the middle of it, alright? It makes sense that people volunteer to help and reshuffle their priorities. You’d do the same, wouldn’t you?”

“I never asked for it,” I nearly shout.

“No, you didn’t,” she says, more gently this time. “But this is how it is and this is the role you have to play. Feeling sorry for yourself, no matter how much you are entitled to it, won’t help now. Everything is at stake.”

She finishes solemnly, bravely and I’m momentarily speechless. 

A war?

Everything is at stake.

“You heard her, mate,” Ron smiles weakly. “It’s not about you, is it? In this game of chess, you happen to be our King and Riddle’s theirs. We just have to work out how to take their pawns, figure out who’s Queen. And then? Check bloody mate.” His smile turns into a grin now as I stare at him. “But a bit more story first, yeah? I already told you about the doctor loaded safe house and the patching up. See, Fred and George waited till the docs gave them the okay to move you - and they took you to far end London, where yours truly and the lovely madame,” he stops, allowing Hermione to scoff properly, “were anxiously waiting. Hopped into a rental car, made haste, abandoned the car at a distance from here and carried your lifeless bum romantically at midnight through the forest to avoid all prying eyes. And now here we are,” he gestures widely, “the Forest of Dean. Took turns watching you, keeping watch outside and all. What do you think, mate?”

“I - er. Reckon my ears have bled thoroughly,” I admit, embarrassed. Not once had he mentioned Ginny, but there’d been no need for it. He might as well have punched me in the face.

Ron grins, mischief blending strongly with the freckles on his face. “Brilliant. That’s to ensure you’ll be sparing us your heroics from here on, yeah? And soften your future meeting with Sirius a bit.”

I cringe as he mentions Sirius. In hindsight, there could’ve been better, smarter ways to part than a hefty shove to the ground and a mouthful of swear words.

“Can we make contact with the Order?” I ask when I’ve recovered, tone as even as possible when, in reality, all I want is to know how Ginny is, how she’s been. Is she alright? Could she ever forgive me? Can James?

I love them both so much, I’m gutted. I miss them both so much I want to scream.

“In a way,” Hermione shares an uneasy glance with Ron. “The Order’s communications system must’ve been breached for some time if Podmore’s received that message. Enough time for them to learn our code and use it against us. All means of contact have been cut for now - we’ll, ah - we’ll have to use public phones,” she finishes bitterly. 

“It’s alright, love,” Ron pulls her in, kisses the crown of her hair. “If there’s at least one functional payphone left in Britain, we’ll find it. Harry, mate, it’s your last chance to sleep and I’d say take it with both hands. We’re planning the absolute end of Riddle’s organisation tomorrow,” he grins, raises up and stretches, stifling a yawn. “I’m keeping watch outside tonight.”

With another kiss on Hermione’s cheek, he locks the door behind him and leaves us in the dark.

“Do try to sleep, Harry,” Hermione says kindly, pushing another warm mug into my hands and pulling the covers over me. Without another word, she then disappears to the other end of the room and I’m left to my own maddening thoughts. 

* * *

“Hullo, sunshine,” Ron’s voice and him shoving me out of bed wake me up rather violently in the morning. How rude. 

But also how efficient. 

We shuffle groggily inside the murky room, gathering our things, our thoughts, pulling our coats on to drag our bodies outside, the light stinging painfully, awakening the dull throb inside my head. The late summer air swarms against my skin and I shudder, the raw feel of it after so many weeks too hard to bear - but also like magic, like finally breaking a spell.

Hermione hands us coffee, her hair in a bushy plait bouncing on her shoulder as she walks, dividing the frugal bits of food between the three of us: raisins, nuts, cheese, and a loaf of bread. My stomach growls. 

We eat mostly in silence, too fresh from sleep to think much, too bleary eyed to see beyond our plates. Soon, the warm, strong coffee opens our throats, sends the wheels in our brains heftily spinning. We’re waking up now, leaves crushed beneath our boots as our feet move, jittery above the forest floor, blood pumping through as life settles its course, washing through the deep end of our limbs.

“Right,” Ron clears his throat and, with a light smack on his knees, bends sideways to rummage through his sack. He retrieves a wooden, battered chess board and sets it on the fold-away table with a grin.

“Hardly the time for a game of chess, mate,” I observe, but he simply gestures I shut up, calling for our attention. 

“This here,” he proceeds to explain, fondly looking at the board, “is the key to every brilliant strategy. Helps with clarity, perspective and, if I may be so bold, drives home the right amount of determination to execute our plans flawlessly.”

Hermione looks at him a little bemused, a little tenderly, her brown eyes sparkling as Ron draws out the pieces on the board.

“Not trying to repeat myself here, but as I was saying yesterday, first we need to work out who the pawns are,” his fingers travel over each wooden figure stationed in the very first row, “who are his generals,” he shows us the rook, the knight, and the bishop, holding each piece for a moment before he places it back on the board, “and then, most importantly, who’s his queen. In other words, whose disappearance would land the most fatal blow, right?”

My hands rake through my hair, rumpling it further at the back. “How do we do that, then? Obviously there’s a lot of intel to be gained, isn’t it?”

“We spy on them, of course,” Hermione’s eyes twinkle as she answers and I’ve never seen her so enthusiastic about upcoming roguishness and misconduct. 

“Right you are, Hermione,” Ron grins toothily at her, just as eager to do damage. “First, we spy on them, take notes, connect the dots. Then, we proceed to remove the three important pieces,” he follows, flicking the last three pieces on both ends of the table with his index finger. “When all that’s done, we contact the Order and prepare to blast through Riddle’s doors, guns blazing.”

A similar grin now stretches over my face, my heart beating rapidly, anxiously, beating fervently as I imagine it unfold. I’m ready, I’ve always been. 

Riddle, watch out; I’m coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaah, what do you think? this one's heavier on the action side while the first part was abundant in fluff&smut as harry and ginny worked on building their relationship and then marriage. still, i hope it will be just as enjoyable! i'm super happy to have come this far with the story and very excitedly waiting to hear your thoughts & comments <3


	2. venom

My raw being turns from terror to happy, delighted shock and back to utter fright again as I watch Ginny, her unconscious form disappearing through the ER doors, a small, screaming baby pulled out of her by a team of medics the moment I plaster my trembling face to the thick, cold glass. 

I watch hungrily as a nurse towels my baby’s shock of black hair, as another wraps him and he screams, and screams, and screams. I watch fearfully as Ginny doesn’t wake up, but rather lays there, limp and idle on the table, her scorching, blazing brown eyes closed now.

Someone approaches, their bloody, gloved hand on my shoulder, but I can’t rip my eyes away from her, from them.

“We’re doing our best, Mr Potter, but -”

The rest is blurred by a howl, a piercing scream - mine, still mine. The thick glass cracks as my body comes striking through it.

* * *

“Harry - Harry, wake up! You’ve been dreaming again, haven’t you?” Hermione’s frightened, winded voice rasps through the night, her palm on my shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s James and Ginny again,” I cough, pain rippling through my chest harshly. But then I stop, the knowledge of where we are and what’s happened and the hurt I must be putting everybody through coming back to hit me as violently as a rock to the back of the head. “I’m alright, it’s all alright, Hermione. You can go back to sleep.”

She stares at me for a moment, unconvinced, then shuffles back to Ron’s side, slipping in next to him, her forehead resting against his shoulder blade. 

Misery and loneliness tug at the battered strings inside my heart, seeping up my windpipes, coiling around them until they’re constricting, until there’s tears prickling behind my eyelids. 

Will I ever hold her like that again? Will I ever hold him?

Will they ever forgive me?

Will I?

I miss them both so very terribly.

* * *

Walking is, more than anything, painful and tiring, each leg cramping as its muscles protest all at once. I stifle every wince, every cry and I push through because I have to - no matter the pain, both physical and mental.

Hermione says I shouldn’t force myself to stand up, to do all the things that Ron and her are doing, that having stood still for three weeks is bound to have damaged my body. I say fuck it. To me, those are three wasted weeks, twenty one wasted days in which Riddle had grown stronger, his allies growing in numbers and every day more powerful. Twenty one days in which we have allowed him to do so.

And twenty one days I have abandoned my wife and child. 

To all this, I say no more: fuck the pain. Fuck the crying, the tears, the ache. I’ll let them all consume me before I sit down again or back away.

“Alright there, limpy?” Ron asks, blue eyes scanning over me as they raise from the chess board in front of him, a frown marring his features momentarily before he wipes it away entirely.

“Yeah, alright,” I grunt, my hands balled into fists against my thighs, walloping quickly into my muscles to wake them up, make them stop hurting. “Just need to get around a bit, legs are a little stiff,” I lie. 

“There’s a certain elegance to walking with a stick, you know,” Ron grins, moving his discarded jumper away to make room for me on the foldaway bench. The clattering it makes as Ron sets it down near him tells me there’s a gun inside the jumper's front pocket. Instinctively, my hand closes over what’s now my own cold metal gun, hidden in my pocket.

Remembering Ron’s little jibe, I flip him and sit down with a huff. Prick.

“I don’t need a stick, I need a plan.”

Ron sighs, exasperated, his eyes to the sky. “I liked you more when you were a sweet, quiet comatose.”

“Up yours, then,” I drawl, fist smacking into my thigh again to numb the pain, heel of my boot digging into the damp earth beneath us. I take a deep breath, one hand running under my glasses to rub at a spot under my left eye, little pinpricks of light bursting on my retina as I do so. 

It’s been prickling ever since I woke up, an annoying dark spot stumbling around me, dripping on my vision before it’ll stretch uncontrollably over it. That’s when my head splits with the same blinding headache everytime and I see the asphalt cracking my skull open once again. 

I rub the spot a little quicker, hoping it will go away, hoping there’ll be no headache today. I need to be present, I need to do everything I can to get to them, Ginny and James.

We sit there silently, Ron studying the chess board with a sly smile on his face, swapping pieces, grunting, pleased, as he does so, leaning away then, brow scrunched in concentration, before he comes right back with a gleam of pride and determination in his eye. It’s like an entire world of emotions unfurling inside him as I watch.

The leaves rattle around our feet and I tear my eyes away from Ron, thumb sliding absently over the wedding band. It pauses over a small dent, a little valley crushed into the gold when my body hit the motorway. A small dent to always remind me of the gap I willingly, knowingly created into my marriage.

Birds’ songs lace with the sounds of the forest, the distant, cackling rattle of the foliage, the closer, softer sounds of Hermione’s feet shuffling about the old, battered hut. I lean into it, the noise, nail scraping lightly into the dent again. My head aches in pulses to the prattle of Ron’s wooden chess pieces, to the thud thud thud of Hermione’s boots as she drags them on over her restless feet, to the anxious chirping of birds hiding in the tall trees around us.

I close my eyes and my heart aches with the memory of her skin warm against mine, the arch of her back as I held her, the hoarseness of her voice as I loved her. It aches with the knowledge of her alone and frightened in a cold bed, no one there to shake away her fears.

My heart bleeds with the image of my son sleeping soundly at my chest, his little mouth a gentle pout on his lightly freckled face.

There’s a rustling of paper and the crunch of dead leaves before Hermione leans over the table to push a stack of scribbled documents between us, cutting through the image my mind had conjured of James, of Ginny, of the family we’d been. Of the family we are - please, let us still be one, oh please.

“What’s this?” I ask without really looking. 

“A list of all the Death Eater names the Order has discovered so far,” Hermione explains, blowing a strand of hair from her face, leaning once more to spread the paper in front of us. “Took me a bit to remember them all but I think I’ve now covered everything the Order knows.”

Carrow, Dolohov, Rookwood stand written in a tidy hand before my eyes. But so do Lestrange, Pettigrew, and Avery, the ink twining together to string along those names that have brought so much pain to so many of us. Those names that have haunted my earliest memories, each drilling a crease into Sirius’ forehead each time he spoke of them. Names that have gotten my parents out of their beds at night, names that have made them draw their fingers over metal guns, cock them, recoil with the damaging noise they made.

Names that taught me how to hate. 

Still, having them so neatly arranged in front of us, mapped out so clearly, so concisely in a way that is so very much Hermione - ah, I might jump up and hug her. She’d always made me see more clearly, switch on a light above my head to guide me in the dark.

“Hermione, I probably don’t say this enough, but you are absolutely brilliant! This is brilliant!”

Hermione beams brightly, the heavy bags under her eyes fading slightly now. “Thanks, Harry.”

We spend hours pouring over lists of names, deeply engrossed in the plans we’ve started drawing out, Ron and Hermione pointing out details at random as their fingers travel over the ink, linking one name and another together. Scrunching my face to push past the hollow pain burning an irksome kindle inside my head, clawing at my muscles, I try to remember everything Sirius had ever let slip about Riddle and his Death Eaters.

How easy it would be to give him a call, talk through the plans with him, lean on his experience…

Focus, Potter! Constant vigilance, I hear old Moody bark inside my mind. 

“What about Pettigrew?” Ron says, ghosting over the name with his pen. “He was the one spying on your wedding, wasn’t he?”

A dark shadow travels over my face as I think about him. Peter Pettigrew.

“Nah, reckon he served his purpose and stopped being of any value to Riddle after my parents died. I mean, as much as I’d like to punch him bloody, he’s only a lowly servant and it won’t do much for our plan.” 

Ron shoots me a curious look, but Hermione shakes her head. “Harry’s right, I’m afraid. From what I could dig up about him and his connection to Riddle, he hasn’t been acting as a senior rank lieutenant in Riddle’s organisation for over twenty years.”

Ron exhales loudly, hand rising to scratch at his forehead as the pen dangles over the freckles clustered there. “Why does he keep him, then? Doesn’t exactly seem like the kind to get attached, Riddle.”

“Probably knows too much,” I shrug and push my glasses up a bit, tens of names coming back into focus. 

“How ‘bout Bellatrix Lestrange? That’s a name I’ve heard loads of times in the Order,” Ron suggests, tapping the butt of his pen over her name. Oddly, my stomach twists harshly, an ominous feeling of dread boiling shortly in its pit.

I quickly shake it off and say, “She’s Sirius’ cousin, actually.”

Ron stares, taken aback.

“Yeah, Tonks’s related too. Her mum’s Bellatrix’s sister.”

“Mate, what? Sirius and Tonks are related to Death Eaters?”

Ron’s face is ashen as he talks and I suddenly feel a bout of rage as I think of Teddy, the colorful, joyful boy that’s so different, so painfully different from this load of bloodthirsty criminals. 

“Yeah, well, you can’t pick your own family, can you?” I glower and Ron looks a little sheepish, Hermione’s hand landing comfortingly on his thigh. 

“Might be better to leave them out of the plan - the first phase, at least, until we have Sirius and Tonks with us,” she hurries to say, placating. “Bellatrix and her husband, I think Riddle relies heavily on them, but there ought to be others, I’m certain.” She leafs through the paper, scowling frustrated at her own tidy writing, bushy hair bouncing off her forehead before she finally stops. Hermione draws her deep brown eyes over us, a glint of pleasure welled inside them.

“Figured it out, haven’t you?” Ron grins at her, a look of endearment about him.

Hermione smiles back, her cheeks flushed light pink. “I’m probably wrong, but - well, there are some names that stand out, aren’t there? I mean, Pettigrew for his former role, and Malfoy for providing the headquarters. The Lestranges are there, of course, Bellatrix appearing to be his second in command, but there are others too.”

“Who, Hermione?” I ask sharply, nail digging deeply into the dent again, pressing the wedding band into the sore, beaten muscles in my thigh, knocking it over the gun resting there.

Hermione’s smile falters a bit. Then, she squares her shoulders and begins to make her case. “Corban Yaxely. His name appeared heavily in the papers twenty-five years ago, connected with numerous disappearances, searched for bribery, peddling influence and a particular case of assault and battery over a child, whose parents were punished for refusing to help Riddle.”

It’s like someone had snuck behind me and poured a cold bucket of water over my head. I nearly choke as I listen and think only of my little James, of Teddy.

“They’re monsters,” Ron swallows, suddenly winded.

“Yeah,” I growl. “Yeah, they are. They’ll stop at nothing and that’s why we need to be faster, better. Who else, Hermione?”

“There’s Nott. He was a respected figure before Riddle’s rise to power, serving the Government in different roles over the years. It’s how he managed to avoid prison afterwards and had been lying low since, rebuilding his reputation. However, from the intel we’ve managed to gather through the Order, it seems that Nott’s been missing for a couple of months.”

“D’you think his old mates did him in?” Ron asks, a little hopeful.

Hermione bites into her lower lip, lost in thought for a moment. “No. No, I don’t think that. It would fit better if he hurried to rejoin Riddle, wouldn’t it?”

“I agree with Hermione,” I say with a slight nod. “Reckon they’ve all scuttered back to their master as soon as they got wind of his return. What about Avery, then?”

Ron and Hermione share a look before she answers slowly. “Harry, we don’t think that would be a good idea -”

“Why the hell not?” 

My voice has gone up an octave as I snap, effervescent with ill concealed disgust. They’ve talked about this between themselves, haven’t they? Whispering what might be too much for poor, angry Harry, huh?

“Look at how angry saying his name makes you,” Hermione points out a little fearfully. “Look at how wound up you get thinking about him.”

I want to shout that she’s wrong, that I’m perfectly calm, that they’re both bloody wrong and I can do this. I want to shout as loud as I can.

“This can’t turn into your revenge operation, mate,” Ron adds, his fingers feeling over the rook stood on the laid out chess board. “Earlier you went on about us needing a plan. Here’s a plan, we’re working on it now. Either help us do this right or piss off somewhere else, we can’t afford being massive gits anymore.”

He finishes with a kind of ferocity and I’m startled for a moment. 

Slowly then I realise how much he has to lose too, how much we all have to lose. His brothers, all of them, his sister, his entire family, Hermione. I’m not the only one who feels it’s personal.

“Sorry,” I sigh after a while, fingers rubbing at my eye beneath the round rims of my glasses, rubbing at the dark spot again. “I got carried away, you’re right.”

The dark spot melts away.

“Good,” Ron winks but doesn’t smile. “Who else, Hermione?”

She seems to ponder for a beat, as though choosing her words very carefully. “Walden Macnair,” she says then on an exhale. “Thought himself quite the executioner.”

I shoot them a puzzled look, raking my mind for the name. What had Sirius said about him?

“He decapitated Riddle’s enemies,” Hermione whispers, now looking unwell and I can wager Ron and I are perfect mirrors of her pale face. 

Neither of us has the power to speak - for how long, I don’t know. We sit in perfect silence, listening to the sounds of the forest, each of us conjuring images of children, images of innocents, images of our loved ones under those monsters’ grip. And then more, grimer conjurings of us, each clutching guns, blasting through their heartless chests, blood splattering for justice, blood pouring for the lives they took.

A life for a life, is it? And does it ever bring one solace, seeing the life drain out of a killer’s eyes?

The truth is I don’t know.

“I’ll make us some tea,” Hermione gulps, still queasy, and we nod weakly.

At the end, when the warm liquid had helped us somewhat recover, there are three names written at the centre of the page, each enclosed in a separate circle.

Yaxely. Nott. Macnair.

“I still feel that Avery should be there too, maybe as a fourth option - you know, in case one of them is off doing something else when we drop by,” I add, aiming to make it sound more as an afterthought rather than a pout, still a little stung from earlier as Ron’s words revolve around my mind again. What wouldn’t I give to press a gun between that fucker’s eyes and pull the trigger.

Would that help fix anything?

It’s strange though, I’ve never thought I’d be bloodthirsty, never thought I’d be someone who shoots to kill. But he took my son away from me, he took my James and everytime I think of it, everytime I remember it, there’s this howling rage inside me, this complete, utter fury - I’d rip his heart out with my bare hands. 

I’d give my life for my son, I’d take someone else’s life for my son. It’s a love so strong it is unhinging. 

“Harry,” Hermione starts carefully, her elbow subtly touching Ron’s, “we can’t come out of this unsuccessful, you know we can’t. They’ll know we’re coming and that might jeopardise the entire mission. You going after Avery doesn’t sound like the safe approach, does it?”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron adds in, this time a bit more gentler than before, “I’d bang his brains out too, but we can’t mess this up. We can’t let what and how we feel get the better of us right now, so much is still at stake.”

I sit in sulky silence, glowering at them both. So what if they’re right? Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.

“Reckon we’ve covered mostly all there is,” Ron slaps his palms against his knees and grins. “Should be ready to spy on scum very soon.”

We all share a look, fear and determination pooled deep inside our gazes. But we’re ready, yeah, we have to be.

We have to be.

* * *

The black is thick before my eyes, so heavy and dense it’s dizzying. The sounds seem to increase in volume with the lack of vision, crickets and claws rattling about the fallen leaves.

I start a little at the sound of boots stamping their way to where Hermione and I sit crouched on the ground, our bags packed and ready at our feet, guns strapped to our waists and thighs. My fingers grip around her arm, preparing to shelter her, feeling her muscles tense beneath my hand, the other closing on the cold metal of the gun.

Then Ron’s voice comes floating through the darkness and we both relax almost instantly. 

“Car’s alright, ‘cept some antler prints on the hood,” Ron informs, clears his throat. “Was half expecting to find that it’d been stolen, mind.”

“You can’t say that,” Hermione chides, “you know you can’t. We have no back-up plan.”

“Are you, Hermione Jean Granger, afraid we’re going to jinx it?” I clap her on the shoulder, highly amused.

She spins around, dignified, and brushes my hand off her.

“Told you I’m not taking any chances.”

“You’ve earned my unwavering respect,” I chuckle as she rolls her eyes. Secretly, I know she’s pleased.

We walk stealthily towards the car, following Ron’s steps, stepping through the forest as lightly as we can. When we get to it, bags carefully laid under the backseat, we settle inside just as quietly, our breaths the only sounds as they weave rhythmically with the darkness of the car. 

“An hour’s drive to Wiltshire,” Ron announces, palm sliding up to roll his sleeve over his watch. “Don’t fall asleep, I need you both alert.”

I see Hermione nod shortly in the rearview mirror. I offer a court nod myself, heart hammering inside its cage. 

What if it all goes wrong?

What if none of us return?

What if something’s happened to Ginny and James because we’ve moved too slow?

We’re too jittery to talk throughout the entire way, our eyes slipping to check the time regularly, as though afraid we’d mess it if we got there late. 

But late for what, I ask myself? Is someone ever late if no one is expecting them?

Ron hits the brakes gently at a safe distance from the hideout - Malfoy Manor they call it. A standoffish name that sheds clear light into the owner’s character.

Ron nudges us to follow him and I turn my head to search for Hermione, her brow creased with purpose, hair wisped around her face by the low gusts of wind, turning the late summer warmth into early autumn chill.

Three pairs of heels click lightly over the cobblestones, bodies concentrated on making no noise. Our breaths catch, hearts hammering as the steel rubs against the fabric of our clothes. The sound is oddly reassuring and I find my hand slipping often to cup the barrell, as though I can soak it of its power and build it back inside me, crushing down the fear.

But I cannot be afraid, I refuse to feel afraid.

For a blind moment, I see Sirius in front of me, a younger, grinning Sirius polishing his gun with ease, lazy and mellow on the sofa. He laughs as I ask to hold the gun, but then hides it away briskly. You’ll be a happier boy if you never hold one, he says and ruffles my hair.

“There are people inside the house,” Hermione points to the flickering on the ground floor of the tall, imposing building as we come to a stop, kneeling on the grass to lay on our stomachs. 

“And guards at the entrance, look,” Ron whispers, head nudging to two hooded figures standing at the gates. 

I swallow hard, the knot inside my throat feeling like a boulder as it slides down painfully and the thumb rolls once again over the dent in my wedding band. Thinking of her, I breathe in all the courage I can find.

Queasy, palms wet with fear and anxiety, I give both of them a hefty nod. 

Then we start moving.


	3. heathens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: passing mention of rape; explicit language
> 
> if this is something you might not want to read, i strongly suggest you skip over harry’s conversation with avery! plot wise, you won’t miss anything by choosing to skip over that part.

_“Sheltering the boy will only render him ill fit to face the unavoidable, Sirius!”_

_“What if it is avoidable, though? The fuck are we doing all this underground work for, then?”_

_“We’re doing it because it is our duty to the boy! We’re doing it because, this time, when Riddle comes, we’ll be prepared.”_

_“Maybe he won’t ever come. I mean, James and Lily have crippled him enough to -”_

_“You’re not a fool, Sirius. Let me teach the boy how to shoot, you’re not helping him by allowing him to become a target.”_

_“Fuck. Fuck!”_

_“Sirius -”_

_“Bloody fucking hell, Moody. If anyone’s teaching Harry how to use a gun, it’ll be me. He’s my responsibility.”_

* * *

Climbing over the fence proves as easy as heaving Hermione up, offering Ron a steady hand and then jumping over it myself, guns clattering roughly as my thigh scrapes over the metal pike at the top. The two guards don’t even look up, so heavily engrossed in chewing whatever they’ve got packed in their brown paper bags, it’s rather ridiculous, really.

We share an amused look on the other side.

“Reckon those two over there are Crabbe and Goyle,” Ron says under his breath, hooking a finger over his shoulder. “Heard they’re so thick they often forget to breathe.”

Hermione frowns. “I don’t know...You’d think Riddle would station someone better than his club’s trolls to guard the entrance.”

“Unless he’s not here now?” I suggest, a kindle of panic igniting in my stomach. Have we traveled so far for nothing?

“Might be, mate, but let’s stay alert anyway, yeah?” Ron says, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Yeah, it’s not like I was about to prance into the building whistling or something,” I shrug, a little incensed. 

Ron grins. “Funny, thought I was supposed to whip out the humour while you brought a certain edge to the situation.”

“If you two are finished bickering,” Hermione clicks her tongue, hands on her hips.

“Almost, maybe two or three more friendly jibes? What do you say, Harry?”

“I suggest we go through the plan one last time and then attempt to breach the headquarters,” she carries on, ignoring him, her voice commanding. 

It’s a calming effect that she has on me, making me feel like I can rely on her, that she knows what she’s doing and maybe I don’t have to do this all alone. I smile at her.

“Alright. So old Yaxely’s mine,” I repeat what we’ve already discussed countless times before leaving the Forest of Dean.

“Hermione takes the triple-crossing bastard Nott, while I take down that Macnair brute,” Ron follows, fingers slipping to feel over the guns.

We all nod.

Golden, artificial light filters through the windows of the upper floor, a whizzing of voices floating from the house for a moment before everything falls quiet once again. The three of us share a look - there is someone inside, then. 

Alright, no time for fear; we’re ready, we have to be. 

I beckon them to follow me, quiet and treading very lightly. We advance through the vast perimeter, slowly reaching the front steps, quietly pressing the handle, hearing the lock click. Holding our breaths, we step inside.

No one’s there to greet us but empty, deep darkness.

I gesture for them to move on the ground floor while I climb up, steady and still and more focused with every step.

I tread as lightly as possible up the carpeted stairs, fist wrapped like an iron grip around the gun and breath held, hitching at every sound, every flicker of light happening below. The house is still, too still, and this unexpected quiet is pecking at my thoughts, frying up my brain. 

What if this is a mistake? What if Macnair or Yaxely or Nott aren’t here? What if nobody is here?

But what if everyone is? And I’m walking into a trap, one careful, cautious step at a time?

I can’t let myself think like that, I can’t start thinking like that or I’ll run back down, grab Hermione and Ron and drag them away, frightened and foolish and so far from winning this war. Focus, Potter, and constant vigilance, Moody would say.

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, stop. Look around. Breathe. Peer through the darkness. Don’t lower your gun, don’t relax your grip. Alright, you’re on the first floor landing. Take the door on the right, don’t be afraid. 

The door opens slowly with a creak, moonlight filtering through the large windows, onto the great wooden table in the middle of the room, onto the armchairs hidden subtly at the corners. I throw a surveilling look, focus to separate the dark from what is really there, listen intently for any sounds. When I hear none, I step through. 

I take another few cautious steps, stop in front of the window and allow myself to glance outside. The massive figures of Crabbe and Goyle are still stationed at the front gates, the perimeter as void of human presence as before; the car we’ve parked is far enough it’s out of sight. I take a deep, steadying breath, thumb rolling over the dent, slipping up over the barrel of the gun.

I get an odd feeling like I’m watching everything through a glass ceiling, like I’m not really there and it might all just be a dream. Back to the hut, back to the Forest of Dean, like we’ve never even left.

My heart stops.

A fizzle, faint and feeble, like the slow leafing of a book’s pages, flows from somewhere behind me. I spin slowly, ready, gun half-cocked in my hand, to find - no one? I peer around the bookshelves, sleeve traveling along the wood, lightly touching every spine, every tome resting there; I walk around the room, check under the table. Still, nobody’s there, no one turns up, no one seems to have been hiding in the dark, perusing books at leisure, waiting for me to slip before they kill me.

Did I really think there’d be a Death Eater lounging in an armchair? 

I wait five heartbeats more, but the sound doesn’t come again. Time is ticking quickly, I have to go, I need to find Yaxely before they find us.

I take a step, then stop. Another one, then stop again. Another one - and now two more sound behind me, from right where I’ve been standing, mirroring my moves. Is someone following me?

Tentatively, I start to walk again, the sound of footsteps echoing in my wake as I exit the library and return to the darkened landing. My breath hitches.

Teeth gritted, I spin, ready to shoot whoever’s there. 

“Am I imagining it?” I whisper, unsettled by the nothingness around me. No one, not a soul, not a sound from anywhere. I must be going mad.

A great clatter rings from the ground floor - Ron and Hermione, oh no, fuck, I have to help them! 

I run to the railing, hunch over it to get a better look at what’s happening below, scrunch my brow in concentration. The rattling suddenly stops. 

I straighten, about to make up my mind to follow through with this inspection of sorts of the first landing. Tell myself it’s probably just nerves. Push my glasses up my nose before my head splits open with excruciating pain. 

Someone’s hit me.

“Hello, Potter,” that very someone sneers as I fall to my knees abruptly, hands suddenly limp, dropping the gun. It clatters to the ground as noisily and quickly as my heart drops to the lowest pit inside my stomach. “Come to save your little boy?”

Avery.

“My son is safe,” I mutter, palms bracing the fall. “Actually, I’ve come to thank you for what you’ve done.”

“Oh?” Avery exclaims mockingly. Stars rise before my eyes, painful, agonizing, blood seeping down the back of my neck.

“Yeah,” I follow, willing my tone to turn cheerful. “Put a bullet through your skull, you sick bastard.”

Avery laughs loudly. “Big words from a man who’s currently unarmed, eh, Potter?”

“Minor technicality,” I shrug like my head’s not bleeding, fingers buzzing as they feel around for the cold body of the gun. “I can kill you with my bare hands, I’m not picky.”

I grunt as the small bones of my fingers crack under the weight of his boot, Avery kicking the gun away, then planting the sole of his heavy shoe right into my upper back. I cannot breathe, my face smacks hard into the ground.

“You’re full of shit, Potter. Pathetic, lying on the floor while your friends get their own downstairs,” Avery jeers.

There's a wild panic building in my chest at his words, stronger than the pain, hectic and cruel. I need to get to them, crawl to them, save them. 

I need to distract him.

“Where’s your master?” I jibe through the pain. “You must not mean much to him if he’s left you here. Obviously you’re not important enough.”

“The Dark Lord has left precise instructions to guard the mansion while he is away,” Avery snarls from above me.

I need to improvise as I go. Fuck the pain, I can’t afford to feel it now.

“Reckon you don’t even know why he’s left, do you, Avery?”

“Shut up, Potter!” Avery belows, infuriated. “The Dark Lord has his own reasons for not sharing his secrets. He’ll be back soon and he’ll repay me handsomely for bringing you to him.”

“Don’t quite believe you, though,” I reply cheerfully, crawling to one side to look him in his face, push my glasses firmly up my nose. “I think the only thing Riddle sees you fit for is abducting small, innocent babies and we both know you can’t even do that well enough, yeah?”

His face darkens, demented with rage.

“Do not speak the Dark Lord’s name!” Avery barks, breathing heavily. I’m about to use this moment to grasp for the gun, when something in his beady eyes changes, tone shifting swiftly from crazed fury to leering snide.

“I’ve already got your baby once, Potter, don’t forget. Got him from under your nose, I have, while you were busy feeling your wife in the water. Animals in heat, the two of you, ha! But he was so soft as I held him, sleeping so peacefully. Wager he’d look just as peaceful after I'd have gauged his eyes out and handed him to you limp as a rag. I’ll do that soon, very soon, believe me. I’ll get your little baby and your pretty redhead wife,” he allows himself a moment here, the grin on his face spreading so widely, so grotesquely as he dares think about Ginny. “And then, Potter,” Avery continues and my stomach churns in disgust, in rage, “as you’re watching, I’ll grab that red hair of hers and fuck your wife till she’s ripped open -”

Looking back, I can never recall the moment I lunged at him, prowling, roaring with fury and craving his blood, his guts, his chest clawed open till I reach his heart. My fists connect with his face again and again, I punch him so fiercely, so wildly till my knuckles turn to raw, shredded meat pummeling into flesh - unrecognizable, bloody strings of sinew twisting in the long, unkempt strands of his hair; jagged teeth and broken bones.

But I don’t stop. I don’t care he’s fainted, I don’t care he’s just a bloody mass in my hands, I couldn’t give a shit. So I punch and I kick and I knock the life out of him until two hands wound around my shoulders, pulling me away with purpose.

“Are you mental?!” Ron shouts as I fight to reach Avery again, bloody and limp on the floor, exactly where I’ve been earlier before. “Harry, mate, stop,” he hisses when I don’t. “We have to go, come on. Move,” Ron roars now, pushing me down the stairs.

“Harry,” Hermione cries, running towards us as we arrive on the ground floor, her hair a mess, hands pressing tightly into her side. 

A bullet flies between us, the lights go off.

“Get down,” I shout, dragging both of them down with me. Ron swears viciously.

Shot after shot comes firing at us from the dark, nearly hitting my elbow, nearly scraping Ron’s foot. We crawl on our stomachs, pushing through the dark, fighting to get out of the mansion alive.

“Reckon we’re outnumbered,” I call over my shoulder, thrusting forward on my elbows and knees, the gun still strapped to my thigh hurting my flesh as I go. Fuck, must’ve left the other one upstairs. Shit, I just gave some Death Eaters more ammo.

Brilliant, Potter, fucking brilliant, mate.

Bullets come raining down as we swerve right, searching blindly for the exit.

There’s a sound like a fist smacking into the floorboards and Ron mutters something so filthy it takes me by surprise. I reach for Hermione through the dark.

“His knee’s badly injured, he can’t crawl,” she whispers, swiftly ducking her head as another gunshot is fired.

“Roll, then,” I hiss and, with a great, painful lurch, I grab him by the frayed ends of his collar and heave him to me. I clasp my hand around Hermione’s elbow, lift her up along with Ron, hands holding both of them. No time to turn around and shoot back, just rushing fastly through the dark, keeping close together like a herd. 

Somehow, I manage to lead them out of the house. 

“Fuck,” Ron croaks and I can feel a pull as he slips out of my grip. I turn to see him frozen on the spot.

“Ron, what -”

But I swallow my next words, a bucket of ice suddenly dripping down my spine. A massive, hairy something creeps speedily towards Ron, a giant spider with so many legs. It clicks as it crawls, the click-click-clicking of it almost eerie, mesmerising in a way - I’ve never seen something so monstruos.

“Why couldn’t he fancy butterflies?” Ron whimpers, the gun in his hand shaking heavily.

“Potter,” a hooded figure belows from the great big entrance to the mansion, instantly breaking the spell.

Quickly, I cock my gun and shoot three bullets into the thing, shout at Ron to run, Hermione at our heels. We don’t bother jumping over the fence this time, but dash right through the gates, shooting bullets at a pair of snoring Crabbe and Goyle.

Hermione screams as more hooded figures come chasing after us, the tips of her fingers licking over the trigger of both guns, aiming for our chasers’ feet. She’d never kill, Hermione, that much I know.

I fall back to distract the Death Eaters as Hermione helps a limping Ron get to the car. One, two, three, four times I shoot, aiming for their hoods, aiming for their hate-filled chests before I throw myself into the moving car, wrenching the door close as bullets crash into its metal.

Ron hits the pedal with an almighty crash, the car speeding through the night at random now. Hermione’s face appears in the rearview mirror, teary and stained, before it suddenly disappears. 

I look over my shoulder - she’s still there, half her face hidden behind a big, dark spot. I rub my eyes, shoving off my glasses. Fuck.

Avery’s smack to the back of my head must’ve brought it back, that damn spot on my retina.

“Fuck,” I mutter again, slapping the rims of my glasses over my knee. Neither Ron nor Hermione respond. 

We don’t talk as the car rolls, empty lanes bracketed by forests turning into small streets surrounding smaller towns. Our hearts beat with fear, we see nothing of what we’re passing by. We all push through our own pain.

Hours, or maybe years later, the car comes to a sharp stop, my glasses nearly yanked off my nose by the violence of the motion. 

There’s an angry click as Ron unbuckles his seat belt, a furious smack as the door is kicked shut. Sighing, I get out too.

“The fuck you were doing?” Ron hisses at me over the hood of the car, sounding supremely pissed. “You were supposed to get Yaxely and get out of there.”

“I know, I - look, he started talking about James and then Ginny and -”

“I don’t bloody care!” Ron shouts, his hands to the sky. “He could’ve bloody well killed you or had some other Death Eater shit kill you as he distracted you and what about our plan? It’s all gone tits up now, they’ve spotted us -”

“Maybe we can go back and carry out the plan, maybe Avery’s too beat up to alert Riddle -”

“Oh, Harry, you know that’s not true,” Hermione interjects with a pained expression as she steps out of the car and into the night with us. “Nott and Macnair got away, too…”

My heart sinks.

Hand in my hair, eyes dart over Ron and Hermione and, god, what sorry sight the three of us must make. His ripped trouser leg, bleeding knee, torn shirt. Her blanched face, the pain in her side as she’s nursing what must be a broken rib, guns shoved clumsily into their sheats bringing back the disturbing image of Hermione shooting them as she screams at the top of her lungs - in fear, in pain, in a panicked craze. The dried blood that’s flowed down my back, soaking my clothes..

“We thought you’d been captured and Ron hurried to get to you and I couldn’t keep both of them down,” she cries, hands raising to cover her face as her shoulders start to shake. There’s a pang of sadness in my chest for her, my dear, old friend who’s given up so much for me. I don’t deserve her, she doesn’t deserve this. 

Ron wraps her in his arms, kisses the crown of her head, the tear in his shirt rubbing against her bushy hair. “Hey, not your fault.”

Of course it isn’t hers; It’s mine, only and only mine. If I hadn’t lost focus on the beach, if I hadn’t given into my anger now, at Malfoy Manor, if I’d simply been better, stronger…

In my mind, I see Ginny smiling over James as she’s feeding him, our perfect little baby cooing happily at her chest. I nearly choke, every bit of me aching for them.

That’s why none of this can carry on, I won’t allow it. I won’t allow it to continue, I won’t allow myself to hurt more people, I have to finish this.

Therefore, I reach my resolution.

“We have to contact the Order.”

They both stare at me.

“We have to,” I add quickly, allowing no space for any argument. “Riddle knows now, he must know by now we’ve found his hideout, the plan’s gone. We have to contact Sirius, tell him to round up the others. Look,” I sigh, swallowing something resembling bile in my mouth, “we know where Riddle’s hideout is, we’re running out of time, there’s no reason not to attack him.”

Ron and Hermione continue to stare at me, him with his arms still wrapped around her, her with so much fear in her eyes. They have to understand, they have to - there is no other way. I’ll never see my family if we just keep hiding.

Suddenly, Ron’s stern face splits into a great, big grin. “Fred and George’ll be livid, I’m already leading two to nill.”

It’s my turn to look at him questioningly.

“We’re competing to see who kicks the most scum arses,” Ron shrugs casually.

Unexpectedly, without much warning, a booming, warm ball of laughter rolls up our chests, up our throats and we shake with it, leaning into the sides of the car with it, tearing up with it as we laugh and laugh and laugh. 

The back of my head hurts with the pulsing wound, but still I laugh. 

Hermione’s side hurts with the broken rib, but still she laughs.

Ron’s leg hurts with the shredded knee, but still he laughs.

We laugh our pain away until there’s nothing left to feel, but resolution: cold, hard, determined resolution. Finish this, strike back, win the fucking war.

As we come to a calm silence, chests heaving in the aftermath, it’s Hermione who starts as carefully as she always does. 

“I mean it, Harry,” she looks me in the eye and says, “you have to try and push past what they’re telling you. They’re bound to try and rattle you, you know they are.”

Immediately, I feel defensive. “Would you, though? If they said nasty things about what they’d do to Ron?”

She frowns.

“Probably not, but it’s irrelevant,” she follows, flatly. “It’s you they’re targeting, Harry, it’s you they’re after. They’ve guessed your weakness and they can only use it against you if you let them.”

“She’s right, mate. Turn deaf if you have to, but don’t let them get to you like that again. Too much is at stake.” He claps me on the shoulder as he finishes. My lips strain into a thin, white line.

Avery’s filthy words ricochet inside my brain for a moment and it takes me all I’ve got to banish them away, them and all the images he’s put there - of him holding James, of him touching Ginny, of his grinning face as I kept punching him. I’d have torn his arm right out of his body if he’d ever touched Ginny, I have no regrets for what I’ve done.

But Ron and Hermione are right. For now, I do have to push past all insults Riddle and his cronies might hurl at me. For now, all I have to do is focus, never lose focus. For them: for James, for Ginny.

Finally, I nod, glancing sideways at the two of them, jagged nail scraping into the dent inside my wedding band, tethering me to my marriage, to the very purpose of all we’ve done so far.

“Brilliant,” Ron grins then, hand lightly squeezing my shoulder. “Now let’s go talk to Sirius.”


	4. sucker for pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the major tags were specifically added for this chapter. if you wish, you can choose to skip it and the story will still make sense

_“Not like that, you’ll only shoot your eye out.”_

_“But Mad Eye said -”_

_“Fuck what Mad Eye said. I’m teaching you. Now hold it with both hands - yeah, like that.”_

_“But, Sirius, we’re inside the house. I can’t pull the trigger in here.”_

_“There’s a painting of my mother I wouldn’t mind you using to hone your target shooting skills, but seriously now, you’re not pulling the trigger.”_

_“What?! Why? I thought -”_

_“Because you’ll never need to. Because I’ll keep you safe. You’re safe with me, alright, Harry? I’ll always keep you safe.”_

* * *

The neat, vibrantly colorful brick buildings of Bristol rise before us with the sunrise, light running over their walls, sweeping over the cobbles of the city streets. The few, scattered people creeping out of the comfort of their beds so early in the morning pay us no mind as we limp and whimper our way around, jittery, anxiously glancing over our shoulders as we carry each other, the three of us with our arms linked.

Have we been followed?

Have we really managed to escape?

“They probably haven’t even left the mansion, Riddle’s probably told them to stay there no matter what.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re probably right.”

It’s a conversation we keep repeating as night slips into morning, taking turns to chew over the same lines, hoping that, the more we say it, the more we’ll believe it - desperately, so very desperately trying not to see this as a suicide mission; we’ve abandoned the car at the outskirts of Bristol. Ron can’t possibly run that far out now. 

“If we can make it there tonight, we’ll probably still take them by surprise,” I say hopefully, purposefully glossing over all the technicalities of getting back to Wiltshire by nightfall, a fully fledged underground organisation on our tow. But Ron and Hermione are no fools; thus, they say nothing, but simply limp along. 

“Where’d you reckon we found a payphone round here?” Ron grunts as we help him sit on a nearby curb, looking worse for wear. The three of us, we’re parched and hungry and so incredibly tired.

Hermione’s face seems to light up and, brushing her bushy hair off the smudges on her cheeks, she beams at us. “There’s one near the University of Bristol, I’m nearly certain! I remember calling my grandparents from it when I was very little. Mum, Dad and I, we stopped here on one of our extended holidays.”

Ron stares at her for a moment, more than a little distressed. “What were you doing near a university on holiday?”

“Touring all the bigger universities in Britain,” Hermione replies casually.

“Oh, of course,” Ron shortly nods and smacks his forehead, leaning back into the curb. “Silly me, obviously everyone does it.”

“What?”

“I love you,” he grins at her puzzled face.

I clear my throat. “Is this really the moment?”

He shrugs, not a little bit impressed.

“Sorry, mate. All’s fair in love and war,” Ron says brightly, “and this is a bit of both.”

With an almighty sigh, I turn on the balls of my feet and start walking away.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?” Ron brandishes his fist in my direction, still lumped over the curb.

“Er - to find that phone?”

“Oh, Harry, you know I can’t carry Ron all by myself,” Hermione cries, throwing Ron a deeply apologetic glance.

“How the tables have turned,” I grin, turning back to the two of them, link my arms around Ron’s middle to heave him up. “Come on up, mate. Or should I say ‘limpy’?”

“Watch it, oi! You can give me cheek once you’ve cleaned my bum - which, by the way, you haven’t and I have yours, might I remind you.”

“That was very noble of you, mate, thanks,” I roll my eyes as we start walking again in our wobbly, odd trio formation.

“Don’t mention it.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

“Good, ‘cause I’ll deny it if you do. Don’t want people to know I’ve been anywhere near your hairy bum, that’s my sister’s job.”

“Ron, that’s a sexist thing to say,” Hermione scolds, nudging the frayed strips of shirt dangling loose on his shoulder with her forehead. 

“What? How? It’s my sister I’m talking about, not some woman.”

“Mate, your sister - my wife, is a woman.”

“Nah, stop messing me about.”

We carry on this friendly banter till the narrow streets take us to our destination, heels gliding over cobbles on our way. The early rays of light shine over the university, its tall, somber structure reminding me of a fairytale castle.

Would that make us a pack of knights, having traveled all night to save the princess? 

Only the princess isn’t here. She’s somewhere in hiding, safe with our son, protected by her parents.

And the dragon is no dragon, but something far worse: a murderer, a mass killer, playing god with our lives. 

“Look, there’s the phone,” Hermione points and we stagger towards the red box perched stiffly on the sidewalk.

I suddenly feel very stupid.

“I - er, I don’t have any money.”

Ron snorts. “And you call yourself the hero of this story.”

I scowl.

“Stop bullying him,” Hermione huffs, quickly rummaging through her waist bag, then pulls out a fistful of coins. “Here.”

Swallowing hard, I slide them into the booth, slowly dial Sirius’ number, tuning out the light bickering in the background (“How’s that bullying?” and “Oh, stop it, you’re only doing it to wind him up!”). There’s a momentary buzz and then something clicks on the other end of the line. Dial tone, dial tone, then someone picks up.

“Sirius?” I hurry stupidly, suddenly impatient and guilty and very much regretting the way we last parted. “Sirius, are you there?”

A moment of silence, but he doesn’t end the call. Then, testily, Sirius answers.

“Who’s this?”

“What do you mean ‘who’s this’? It’s Harry!”

Apparently, two years of training with Moody have been wasted on me.

“Or you might be some random Death Eater,” Sirius drawls and I concentrate very hard to spot the amusement in his voice, but there is none. He must be pissed at me, still.

Or following standard procedure. Nevertheless.

“Oi, we don’t have much time here -”

“Tell me something only Harry would know,” he cuts me off, every single word steel clipped. What are we doing?

My thoughts run madly through my mind, fretfully, wildly trying to pinpoint a memory, an instance frozen in time, anything that would make him believe me. Sirius, it’s me!

“You and Dad and Remus used to call yourselves ‘the marauders’,” I say lamely after a beat, hoping it would be enough.

“That rat could’ve told you that,” he cuts me off again, his tone near barking now. “Try again.”

It’s a command, make no mistake. It’s special agent Sirius, not my godfather; and I’m the suspect he interrogates, not Harry. Please, let me be just Harry.

I take a long breath in. 

“I’ll never accept to inherit Grimmauld Place because you’ve already given up your entire life for me, I can’t take away your fortune too.”

Another pause as he considers, then Sirius’ warm bark booms.

“Harry! My whiny godson,” he adds conversationally,”how are you?”

“Are you fucking -”

But Ron bumps me out of the booth, swipes the phone from my hand. 

“Sirius?” Ron grins into the receiver. “Hi, yeah, it’s Ron. Harry's alright, we’ve taken good care of him. He talks and whines and uses the toilet multiple times a day, brilliant recovery actually.”

“Is this a joke to you?” I snap, marching back into that booth, squeezing Ron into one side. “Give that back.”

Reluctantly, he plants the phone into my outstretched hand, wasting no time to flip me as I mouth my warmest wishes for his injured leg’s (not so) speedy recovery.

“Wanker,” he mouths back and, with a swift crude gesture, slides out of the booth. I wave him off, return to Sirius.

“Look, we’ve found Riddle.”

“What?!” he nearly yells. In hindsight, there are gentler ways to deliver news, but, right now, time is of the essence.

“Yeah, we paid him a visit last night,” I dive right in. “Long story short, we had a plan and now we don’t and Riddle definitely knows we’re coming now so what do you say we all meet there tonight and bust in guns blazing?” I finish breathlessly, a little hopeful, my heart racing erratically up my throat. 

Please say yes.

Will he say yes?

Do we even have a plan if he refuses?

There’s a pause so long it leaves me feeling nauseous. 

When Sirius finally speaks, there’s such a fearsome, steeled finality in his tone it makes my blood freeze in my veins. 

“We attack at midnight.” 

* * *

Ron slaps the hood of the car as we make our way back to it, covered by the thick, dark cloak of the night. We’ve managed to rest in a secluded corridor of the university, Hermione wrangling food and water from the deserted cafeteria. Another week and the building will be flooded with students, young and happy and unaware of the evil looming just above them.

This time, I drive.

I pull over farther from the Manor this time, hidden behind a copse of trees to wait for Sirius and the Order. If nothing goes wrong, they should be appearing from the belly of the forest in less than ten minutes.

If nothing goes wrong, it’ll probably be a miracle.

“Time?” I ask out of nothing else to do, unconsciously checking for the gun strapped to my waist, hand then rolling over another sheathed at my thigh. Hermione’s lended me one of hers as she’d be covering for Ron tonight.

I never want to see her fingers pulling triggers, frightened and fighting for her life, for our lives. She’s not made for this, Hermione. She belongs between books, she’d been made to fight evil with well crafted words, stringed together into laws, watertight and built to do some actual good in this world.

“Ten to midnight,” Hermione says, her face a shade paler.

“Mate, look, they’re coming,” Ron points out, an arm around Hermione’s middle. He leans in to whisper something in her ear and she nods, kisses him.

Would I do the same with Ginny, take her in my arms and give her courage as she does the same to me? Or would I push her away, paralysed by the fear of losing her?

“Bill,” Ron greets his brother with a wide grin as he slips from between the trees. 

“Harry, Hermione,” Bill nods. “The others should be here soon, I went ahead to scout for any traps. Sirius is leading the rear guard.”

I nod, thankful. “Ginny?” I ask, a little terrified, a little weary of his answer.

“With Mum and Dad at our great aunt’s house in Plymouth. Her and James are safe, Mum and Dad won’t leave her.”

I breathe in a long breath, the mad beating of my heart slowing down slightly. They’re not alone, oh, thank the heavens, they’re not alone.

“You need to concentrate on what we’re doing tonight, yeah?” Bill nudges me back to the present. “They’re both safe, but, Harry, you need to do your best to concentrate.”

I nod curtly. For a short moment, I wonder if he’s really speaking to me or to himself, mind straying to Fleur and their two daughters.

“Come on, the Order’s here,” Bill motions us to move, his long ponytail swishing over his back as he leads us down to Malfoy Manor, throngs of heavily armed people right behind us. There’s the distinct sound of iron rubbing against cloth as we move and I listen for it intently as my nail scrapes over the dent in rhythmic tandem; it gives me courage.

Close to the gates, we stop to assess what’s ahead of us.

“Fred?”

“Yes, George?”

“What d’you say we give them ol’ Daft Eaters over there a Weasley Wheezes special?”

“I’d say you read my mind.”

They smile at each other evilly before they creep, surprisingly silently, behind the two hooded figures posted at the entrance and trip them with so much agility I’m actually impressed. The rest of us wait as they seem to faff over the fallen bodies, breaths held, until Fred raises his thumb - it’s alright to move.

“What did you do?” I whisper as we hurry past the gates.

“Just tested something we’re currently developing - they should feel both deaf and blind for about an hour,” George shrugs, our shoulders scraping against each other as we move in a packed formation. “If not, then I guess we’ll just have to deal with two more of them, eh?”

He grins as he cocks his gun and follows after his twin brother. Farther up, there’s Bill leading the group, with Tonks and Remus close behind him, Sirius falling back to check on the rows after rows of incoming Order members; whispering something to Bill as he passes him the lead, clapping Remus on the back, squeezing Tonk’s shoulder, signaling something to Moody in the far back until he falls in line with me, Ron and Hermione.

There’s something thunderous in his expression as we stop in front of the Manor, the eerie silence of the day before enveloping us once again. They must know we’re coming.

Bill looks at Sirius, waits for him to nod, before picking the lock on the door - only to find it open.

“The whole lot of them’s packed inside,” Moody growls, “they’ve rolled the mattresses. Constant vigilance, not one of them will hesitate to shoot us dead. We’re fighting for our lives tonight.”

“Bill,” Remus whispers, “we’re ready.”

On his right, a gaggle of redheaded men nod - Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Kingsley Shacklebolt on his left ready to shoot, watching Bill’s back. 

Pure, unwavering determination pools in his eyes as Bill knocks the door open with his shoulder and steps in, gun raised, the Order pouring in right after. There’s electric sparks flying around us, fear mixing with excitement in the heavy atmosphere, hearts pumped with adrenaline. We might not come out alive, but we’ve given our all.

“Stay with me, Harry,” Sirius says when I’m ready to slip inside, grabbing my arm. Hermione’s bushy hair disappears through the dark, Ron’s limping step fades away. I turn to look at Sirius.

His deep, grey eyes drill holes into my soul, a parent’s crushing, fierce love for his child flowing through.

“Harry,” he says, a heavy crease forming on his brow, “before we go in…”

Sirius seems to catch his breath or find the right words to say but there’s something I need to tell him too and now’s as good a time as any.

“I’m sorry!” I blurt out and, oddly, so does he. 

What? No, wait. I need to tell him -

“I’m sorry for the way I reacted -”

“No, shut up,” he cuts me off, words laced with urgency. His fingers grip my shoulders tighter, the commanding note in his voice slipping into something softer as he makes me look back into his eyes, as he wills me to listen. “I’m sorry for pushing you away. No, listen,” he gives me a small shake as my mouth opens to interject, “I should’ve known you’d never stand aside and let others fight for you. You’re so much like Lily and James…”

There’s sadness in his features now and, oh, Sirius, how long have you been blaming yourself? I can’t let you do this, I can’t. Not when the fault is mine, Sirius, mine! Just mine.

“You were right, I should’ve -”

“Stupid, noble idiot, so much like your father,” he breathes as though he cannot hear me. My heart breaks.

“Sirius,” I say, lips trembling, “you’re my father too. You’ve raised me, Sirius. I love you like my dad - you are my dad.”

I can’t fight the tears welling in my eyes and I don’t want to. I just hold onto his arms until they slide off mine, my temple suddenly crushed against his chest as Sirius holds me there and I can feel it heaving with grief and love and everything he’s done for me for more than twenty years.

We stand still like that till we’re calmer, him holding me tightly, me brushing off the tears under the rims of my glasses. My parents haven’t raised me, but I’ve never been an orphan.

“We’re getting out of here, alright?”

His palms are on my shoulders again, squeezing, and I nod. I’m no longer afraid.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are.” 

Sirius smiles, shakes the long hair off his face. “You’ll be with Ginny and James soon.”

“And you’ll be there with us,” I add fiercely.

“Come on, let’s go. Can’t let the others have all the fun, yeah?”

A sudden crash recoils in the centre of the lobby as we step in, a huge, hairy lump of a man with teeth so sharp they might pass as fangs careening into Remus, Tonks shouting herself hoarse behind him.

“This your missus, Lupin?” the man snarls as Remus struggles to free himself from under him. “Where’s your little pup?”

With a shrill cry, Tonks shoots him in the shoulder, forcing him to roll off Remus.

“Fuck you, Greyback,” Remus spats.

“Harry, come on, they can handle this,” Sirius urges me, motioning over his shoulder that I follow him through the dim lit corridor. 

Running, we take a sudden right and stagger into what looks like a study, the paintings on the walls dangling with the force of bodies being slapped against them. Here Bill, Charlie, Percy, and the twins each fight a Death Eater, weapons often forgot in favour of fists.

“Remember, Harry, we’re here for Riddle,” Sirius instructs and once again I’m at his heels, trying to fall back into step with him. He hurries further across the corridor, gun raised as he knocks a new door open.

“Hello, cousin,” a woman’s snide voice rolls from behind the door. Bellatrix. 

Sirius doesn’t stop, but throws himself at her, the door falling shut behind them as guns rain bullets on the other side of it.

I’m ready to run in and help Sirius when Hermione’s panicked cry echoes from the adjoining room, Ron dashing past me at full speed. I waste no time and follow him immediately, jump over a broken chair to land in a room I’ve definitely seen before.

The living room, large and sumptuous opens before us, a gaggle of Death Eaters at the other end of it, their hooded forms blending in the darkness.

“Harry, no,” Hermione cries.

A loud thunk follows, the massive, plump figures of Crabbe and Goyle tangled over her as one holds Hermione while the other one hits her across the face.

“NO,” Ron rages like a bull and charges at them to the utter amusement of the crowd of Death Eaters, his mad howls mixing deafeningly with their cackles.

“Scared, Potter?” 

A young man snickers as he passes by me, his white blond hair catching the reflections of the full moon outside. I recognise him from the Order files, it must be Draco Malfoy and this must be his house.

My knees buckle under me and I’m pushed into the middle of the room, my glasses falling with a thud between my legs.

A rain of gunshots sound around me, each shot clipped and followed by another, fiercer one.

“Get up, Potter,” I hear Alastor Moody’s voice, mad, thundering thuds as he limps up the stairs, clearing the way for Kingsley and his team. I quickly plant my glasses firmly on my face, making to rise back to my feet.

Swiping the second gun from its sheath, I shoot at random, claiming shoulders, claiming feet, claiming hands that have risen against the innocent. I shoot with courage I didn’t know I possessed, I shoot with the fury of having my life torn apart, my wife and son in danger. I shoot like I refuse to lose.

And when I’ll finally be done with them, I’ll go right after Riddle.

Tonks and Remus swish in as I stop to charge my guns, chasing a cackling Greyback as the monster laughs madly, a trail of blood seeping after him from the wounds drilled in his shoulder blades. He seems immune to pain.

To my left, a woman shrieks with unadulterated joy, hurling sly, teasing remarks - it’s Bellatrix again, laughing at Sirius as he slams her into a wall and begins to choke her. But her grin only grows as his fingers constrict harder around her windpipes.

“Sirius, look out,” I shout, but it’s too late. A bulky man pries him away from Bellatrix, hammering Sirius into the floorboards. 

“Rodolphus, my love,” Bellatrix chimes, “I was only playing with my dear cousin. It’s rude of you to interrupt.”

For a wild moment, I am overwhelmed again, the resolve of before starting to dissipate - who do I help? Sirius? Hermione? Remus? 

Riddle, no, it has to be Riddle. That’s the mission, that’s why we’ve come here. And if he’s not down here, then I’m searching for him upstairs. 

“Get back, Potter.”

His voice is very calm, but his haughty face is menacing as he thrusts a long, pointed handgun into my chest - Lucius Malfoy, with his white blond hair flowing low over his back, the same shade as his son’s. Steadily, he pushes me to the centre of the room, the Death Eaters on the sides that have been, up to this point, simply spectators now coming through to form a circle as wide as the room.

I scan around me quickly, realising I’m the only one inside as Ron, his brothers, Hermione, Sirius, Remus and Tonks all fight outside it. The only way in is over the Death Eaters. The only way out - there is no way out for as soon as I aim to shoot one of them, the others will have pointed all their guns at me.

A grandfather clock’s single chime announces one hour after midnight. Bang. 

With that, nobody no longer moves, as though freezing still in expectation.

The circle closes in around me all of a sudden, the strength of a snake constricting around its prey pulsing through it now. The wall of Death Eaters, all motley and hooded and armed, parts briefly, the pair of shoulders previously pushing firm against each other now limping to the side. 

All heads bent, the air around us suddenly charged with a kind of reverence, with veneration as one figure steps through - dark, imposing, and evil.

Riddle.

He walks to me, moonlight shining over the paleness of his skin, momentarily illuminating the horrifying mutilations he’s done to himself on his path to darkness - like pits caved into his face where his nose had once been, a deep cut across his mouth instead of lips, the slashes and gashes once made into his flesh now shining low like scales; he’s become the human snake.

“Hello, Harry Potter,” Riddle hisses, low and dangerously.

Click. I cock my gun in response.

“Careful,” Riddle chuckles, his eyes scanning over his circle of fanatics. All of them tensioned, all of them in the deepest, most painful concentration to read their master’s face for a sign to lurch out and kill. “With the raise of one finger,” he follows, all amusement now gone from his voice, “all your friends foolishly joining you here will be dead.”

My eyes unconsciously stray over the circle of Death Eaters, my heart sinking viciously. Everyone’s been outnumbered, every single one - from Sirius growling menacingly as Bellatrix presses a gun to his temple, to Bill, Charlie and Percy, Fred and George back to back on the ground as they stand surrounded, Tonks and Remus backing into a wall with their guns still raised, Greyback towering above them, Crabbe and Goyle holding Ron into a chokehold as Draco Malfoy thrusts the barrel of his gun into Hermione’s back; Moody and Kingsley and the rest of the Order still fighting tooth and nail upstairs, the utter refusal of losing this war firing through them, fueling their will to keep fighting, to keep living.

“I’ve been watching you, Harry Potter. Watching you, curious to learn about the baby that had brought me so much pain,” Riddle hisses again, his tone carefully crafted to make me believe it’s destined solely for me, as though everything he’d ever done had always been for me. “And do you know what I have learned over those many months of watching you?”

“I really don’t care,” I drawl and I really, really don’t. Believe nothing that comes out of a manipulator’s mouth because every single word is a new lie. 

“That you’re so painfully like your parents,” he goes ahead despite my words, “my energy had been wasted on you. How is your girlfriend?”

My stomach churns painfully. What does he know about Ginny?

“Oh, right,” Riddle smiles and the thick scar stretches hideously across his face, monstrous in the dim light. “She’s your wife now, Mrs Harry James Potter. Foolishly noble, honorable Harry Potter married her after he had tarnished her as soon as he saw his chance.”

The crowd of Death Eaters snarl and jeer in excitement. Behind Riddle, Avery’s thrill sends his eyes nearly rolling in his swollen, beaten head, his tongue darting out as he sings his praise for his master and idol. 

Riddle laughs, guttural and harsh, bald scaly head lolling backwards. He takes another step towards me.

“Like animals,” he whispers in my face, “your parents and you. Letting your primal instincts guide you into vulnerability. Fathering a child makes you vulnerable, doesn’t it, Harry Potter?”

I swallow back vomit, his putrid breath and the implication of his words sending bile up my throat. I quickly consider pressing my gun into the hole of his nose and pulling the trigger.

But I know better than to play his game, I’ve learned it the hard way last night with Avery. So, under the pretence of leaning into his mock private conversation, I step forward and whisper too.

“Not at all, Tom,” I say conversationally. “If anything, it’s made me stronger. But you don’t know what love is, do you? You’ve never known and thus you’ve searched for power all your life not knowing that it really lies in love.”

I keep my head held high as I confront him, I watch him trembling in fury.

“Lies,” Riddle bellows. 

The room instantly clambers with the chakchak of shotguns, a thunderwave of insults hurled at me, the cries and indignant yells of the Order resonating through. I try to clear my head, ignore all else except Riddle. Ignore Sirius’ curses and Ron’s yells of encouragement or even Avery threatening to pay Ginny a visit with a couple of his friends. I push it all away.

This is a battle not won through force, but strategy.

“Cooperate, and no one will be hurt,” Riddle commands.

Not once does he raise a gun or any other weapon, but he doesn’t need to. Guns aren’t his weapons - his followers are. Every single one of them would give their life for Tom Riddle, either willingly or out of sheer terror.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I keep my word, Harry Potter. Always. All your friends will walk out of here safely, your wife and son will go on to lead long, happy lives. All you need to do is offer me your life.”

It’s the finality in his words that has me pondering the possibility, the slimmest chance that, by giving myself up, no one else would ever be hurt.

A sacrifice that’s neither great nor enough: my life for my wife and my son. Their lives are the valuable ones, not mine, and I was never meant to come this far anyway.

“It was never meant to be anyone else but you, Harry Potter. I merely ask you to do one last noble thing: give me your life in exchange for all the other’s -”

A booming bark of laughter cuts him off, echoing through the darkened corridors, ricocheting off the walls. Sirius.

“What a load of fucking crap.”

I turn my head just in time to see Bellatrix smacking Sirius over the mouth with the barrel of her gun, outraged, her eyes bulging out of her head, crazed.

“You do not speak to the Dark Lord, you do not address the Dark Lord, you filthy -”

With a hand lazily raised, Riddle swiftly interrupts Bellatrix’s shrill cries. She immediately falls silent, hunched over a bleeding Sirius, her chest heaving in hard, erratic strokes.

“Calm now, Bella,” he hushes her, placating. “Your cousin is an old friend of mine, you know. What else can we be if not honest to our dearest friends?”

“Harry, do not listen to a word he says,” Sirius shouts in my direction, utterly ignoring his cousin and the blood flowing in rivers from his mouth. “He will not hesitate to kill everyone here after he’s done with you.”

“You call the Dark Lord a lier?!” Bellatrix shrieks again, raising her arm to smack him across the face.

“Bella,” Riddle speaks her name as though giving an order.

“Listen here, you scaly lizard,” Sirius goes on tauntingly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to get up. “Why don’t you try me on for size, eh?”

“Sirius,” Remus shouts, taking his eyes off Greyback for the first time.

“Do not approach the Dark Lord,” Bellatrix screams, out of her mind. “You are not worthy to stand in his presence!”

“Sirius, no, please,” I plead with him, turning my back to Riddle. His grinning face, the steel in his eyes, the unwavering determination etched in every feature as Sirius raises tall, his gun cocked, calloused tip of finger licking over the trigger.

“I’ll kill you,” Bellatrix howls and raises her gun to the back of Sirius’ head, his long, black hair falling in elegant waves over his shoulders as he shakes his head, completely bored.

“Bellatrix,” Riddle hisses sharply.

There’s a moment of extreme, crushing silence before I hear his barking laugh, that booming, hoarse laughter I’ve heard echoing down the halls of Grimmauld Place my entire childhood. Sirius laughs heartily, unapologetically, staring death right in the face with unrestrained audacity.

_Gunshot._


End file.
